Precious South, sweet sassafras
Puckers pale lips near wooden spoons of simmering succotash
Vapors wafting in the living room
The Georgia peach candle gifts mix and match perfume
Making allure with the basket filled of cauliflowers
Vinegar spiced swine devoured
Every hour on the hour.
My Precious South, where Cardinals call by summer
And booming goodbyes with football cannon fire,
Boisterous and melodic in its own roaring ruckus,
Like the shout of the voice of the archangel
Declaring victory over every city corner
Purple and Gold, Kingly robes sagged and sullen
In well done defeat, wanders still walk
In haute couture up the weary stumbling streets.
Sweet disease on their breath of liquor treats, win or lose
Still drinks are what the moment calls for
Golfing Buddies in their cheaply fashion
Sidewalk sale leftovers, "Let those suckers think high price
Is what we pay for." Their polyester smelling of wine stained messes.
My precious South, how I hate you, like high school heartache,
Birthing me into your lovely malcontent, you shun me with your bleach Blonde beauties, pigments fading in the Technicolor conflict I wrestle, Distinguishing past from present, the autumn months avail with teasing Kisses dying in winter, forcing bundled jackets to be my only warmth.
My precious South, how I hate you for hating me.
Through fathers rants you brought your truth, a conscience to call me too,
With all the condemnation to consider as I carried on out the door, to more
Of your riddles, plagued with rioters, crooked-underhanded-blue-blooded-
Drug-dealers that filled these schools you begged me to call home everyday.
Barking ridicule through the elite or the-so-called "popular"
Who held ubiquitous favor no matter where I complained.
Trying not to make disasters shelter, realizing my sores were so less
Compared to previous history, I learned and sang "we shall overcome",
Humming negro spirituals as your hate did overrun,
My Precious South, you are no discerner of persons.
Pressing cloth of cotton twine to bleeding skin for mercy's sake,
My heart is a mess and it is your mistake, my Precious South,
What with your revered sons of arrogant torture, glossy lips with accent rich class that say "no", Shouts of victories over guns, no surprise since my youth I was shaken until numb,
Like another twenty year old, I write "from sea to shining sea",
You mocked me with your words, "you can be whatever you want to be."
Through class fights and prom night; state fairs and barbecue affairs,
Manners trimmed with shirt tales tucked in
Because nobody wants to remember those white-trashed Christmas years.
Here you are, my precious South, the life you gave to me,
Maladroit and unaware of eyes that finally see.
Through them were bottled all the cold your son could spare,
All I could stomach, all I could bare,
Through the times that I have grown, none have I regret
Often do I forgive you knowing now that I am older,
No more subject to your riddles,
How many of your smells and sights did I ignore until now?
Tree lines of vivacious green forests, salty Emerald Isle majesty
Smoky Appalachian stepping stones for God where I rejoice aloud
My precious South of you I am most proud.
Your mountains, oceans, cities, and skies
Seeping purple hearted love in my tearful shedding eyes,
I almost wonder how I could ever leave you behind.
Forsaking you as if you were my own country it would seem
As I burn confederate flags in my Tar River dreams.
Window skylights gave me heavens sunsets where I lie
Finding my mind mulling future plans to design
Of these ventures conjured, revelations come to mind
That to live and die here would never be less sublime.
As D.C. resources begin to buckle under the strain of thousands of migrants being sent to the nation's capital from Texas, the Biden Administration has taken steps to solve the problem by hiring them all as IRS agents.
The eclectic playlist of melodies that I am drawn to in inspiration to learn, and play, has just been enriched by one melody from my childhood that concurrently found its place into the collective consciousness of generations, rightly seeking that bittersweet space where happiness lives.